“You can’t mean –” The commandant tries not to choke on the cookie.
“I’m only sorry I can’t do more. Now, I understand from our ambassador in Ottawa that there are plans to close this camp down in the near future.”
“Do you indeed?” The commandant looks vexed. “I was not aware that was being discussed beyond Canadian government circles.”
“I expect your prime minister knew of our interest in the camps. He no doubt wished to remind us that we will need to be vigilant about our borders as more of these internees are freed.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. The great majority are going to companies where they have previously worked. And I really believe most of the prisoners have learned their lesson.”
Bellamy takes a long sip of his tea. “What lesson might that be? Is it that they somehow made a mistake in being born Ukrainians?” Again the commandant looks baffled. “Never mind that. You confirm this camp will not exist much longer?”
“I believe that is a real possibility, perhaps by midsummer.”
Bellamy eats a biscuit and follows it with more tea. The commandant breathes a sigh of relief. The interview has been most unpleasant, he must think, but it’s almost over.
“I’d like one of the prisoners to come in for a moment,” Bellamy says.
“Now, do you mean?” The commandant looks horrified.
“Yes, I think that would be best.” Bellamy turns to Andrews, still lurking in the hall. “Sergeant Andrews, please bring in the man who spoke up in the bunkhouse.”
“You mean Taras Kalyna, sir?”
“Yes, Sergeant, if that is the name of the man who spoke up.” Andrews goes back into the hall and waits a moment. Taras nods; Andrews doesn’t want the commandant to think he’s been right there listening all this time. He tries to smooth his hair. Andrews pulls a comb from his pocket and hands it to Taras. Helps him button the front of the mackinaw. Then they enter the room. Not sure what to do, Taras stands quietly to attention.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Kalyna.” The commandant almost jumps out of his chair when he hears Taras being addressed politely. “I thought the internees might like to know that the Canadian government is making plans to dismantle the work camps within the next few months. How does that sound to you?”
The commandant looks aghast, and Taras is totally startled to be asked about anything. “You mean, they’ll send us home?” he manages to say.
“I’m afraid not right away. The plan is, you’d work for various industries for six months of what your government calls parole. It is likely that work can be found for all of you – in mines, on the railroad or in the forest industry. You’d sign a contract to stay six months. After that, you’d be free to go home.”
“All the men would be free to go home? We would work only six months?”
“That’s my understanding. A regular job, and you’d agree to stay six months.”
“We would be paid same as other workers?”
Bellamy glances at the commandant, who nods. “Yes, that’s right. The same rates.”
Taras struggles to take it in. Nothing in the last half hour is like anything in the last year and a half. The cold that works to the bone, the threadbare clothing, the sparse food and misery of spirit threaten to overwhelm him. To stay alive in this place he’s been forced not to dwell on when or even if he’ll ever leave. Now he stands in a warm room and hears a fairy tale.
“I don’t understand. Why does the government do this?”
“It’s simple – there’s a shortage of workers. Because so many men are away at war.” Well, isn’t that what Tymko always says? “And I think they realize by now that your people are not their enemies.”
Taras almost breaks down in tears. He doesn’t think the government will ever say what Bellamy just said, but it feels good that somebody said it. “We are not enemies. We should be free.” Taras wants to feel joy but can’t forget his lost days.
“Apparently this is the best that can be hoped for. I thought you would like to know there will be a limit to this incarceration. You might explain it to the other men.”
Taras is suddenly tired to the bone. “Dobre. I will tell them. Thank you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kalyna. Andrews will accompany you back to the bunkhouse. I will speak to the commandant about the possibility of obtaining a doctor for yourself and the other man who was punished.”
As they leave, Taras sees the commandant stir his tea with unusual concentration.
CHAPTER 35
Kvitka
The doctor has come, several times. One day near the end of February, as the mountain snowpack begins to thaw, he declares Taras fit for work and Tymko nearly so. That evening they walk to the bunkhouse after supper in their new woollen mackinaws, a sleet-filled wind at their backs. Out of nowhere, it seems, they hear boots pounding and hoarse, raspy breathing. Taras turns to see a stocky man with an angry, red face. Sees his arm rise.
The knife slices through Taras’s coat and into his chest. Blood gushes out in time with his heartbeat. On his own he would fall but the screaming man holds him tight. Twists the knife free and then Taras falls. The man raises his arm again. Taras sees the arc the knife will take.
Tymko catches the man’s wrist and snaps it with an audible crack. The knife floats to the ground. The man sinks to the snow, clutching his wrist, lips stretched in a howl so wild and hoarse his throat will surely tear. Face wet with snot and tears. And so close Taras sees right into his eyes.
How can Viktor be here?
Tymko tears off his jacket, folds it and presses it against the wound, but blood still spurts out. Taras is intrigued by the dark puddle in the snow. Kalyna, kalyna. Sleet drenches his hair and coat.
Guards come running. Andrews sends a private for the truck they use to fetch supplies. Bullard picks up the knife and puts it in a pocket. He and Andrews lift Taras into the truck box still bleeding. Tymko keeps pressure on the wound all the way to the hospital.
Taras wakes slowly. An hour drifts past, and he understands he must be in the Banff hospital. A private room with a soldier sitting by the door. Why? Ah... He’s too dangerous to be near other patients. The guard will keep him from escaping. Good. He feels the wound in his chest in a distant way. They must be giving him medicine for the pain. Best not to move if you can help it, a voice inside him says. It’s quiet in the hospital.
And warm, deliciously warm. He sleeps.
Wakes to see a nurse looking down at him. Tall and pleasant looking, with red-gold hair, she’s the first woman he’s been near since he came to the camp. He’s amazed by how strong she looks; by the colour and texture of her skin, the warmth in her eyes. He wishes he could touch her just to know what that feels like.
“That’s better. Sleeping Beauty’s finally waking up.” She has a strong Scots accent – like Tymko’s Rainey had. It takes Taras a few moments to get an idea of what she said. What’s Sleeping Beauty? He has a feeling he’s heard those words before. One of the guards...
“You must be hungry. Can I get you something to eat?”
This can’t be heaven, but it will do for the present. “Proshu,” he says, and sees she doesn’t understand. “Please.”
“You haven’t eaten for two days. I’ll bring you something easy to digest.” She swishes out of the room. The guard looks sad to see her go.
Looking at the nurse is easy to digest. She looks so healthy. So good. So smart. Taras can’t believe his luck.
Now that he’s more awake, though, pain rakes his chest, pulses with each heartbeat. He tries to take slow, shallow breaths. The throbbing subsides a little. His head goes fuzzy.
He awakens again when Miss MacQuarrie, which she tells him is her name, comes back with a bowl of oatmeal, brown sugar and warm milk. She cranks up the head of his bed and it feels as if barbed wire is being dragged through his chest. Once he gets his breath back she feeds him lovely warm porridge.
“You’re lucky, you know. The knife misse
d your heart and lungs and a major artery. Of course, you’d have been luckier not to get stabbed in the first place.” She spoons up more porridge and holds it out like a robin offering its baby a worm. The whole bowl seems to disappear in seconds.
When he tries to puzzle out her name, wanting to thank her, she says he can just call her Flora. Kvitka, he says. Flower.
Kvitka offers him a muffin with butter and marmalade. Taras shakes his head. She gives it to the guard.
“You know,” she tells him, “this boy’s going nowhere for quite a few days. You could give yourself the occasional break.”
The guard nods with a foolish grin. After she leaves, he does step out for a while.
Next day Tymko is allowed to visit, accompanied by Bullard. The relief on Tymko’s face seems to say he believes Taras will live and that it’s not what he was expecting.
“I wrote to your parents. I said you’ll be all right soon. Nice to see I wasn’t lying.”
Taras feels a smile tugging at his face. He’d forgotten smiling, lying here all day. Like the rest of his body, the face has been taking advantage of the time off.
“They sent that guy to the crazy house,” Bullard is saying. “He wouldn’t stop yelling. And crying. Who was he, anyway? Did you know him?”
“I knew him...once. He was always...a bit crazy.” Taras turns to Tymko. “Like Yuriy says, there’s one crazy bastard in every village.”
“He’s only been here in camp for a few weeks,” Bullard says. “He was helping out in the kitchen. They say that’s all he was good for. They say he never talked to the other men. Stole the knife that night. Why do you think –”
“I don’t know.” Taras doesn’t want to say too much with Bullard there. “Maybe he didn’t like being locked up.”
“Must’ve been it,” Bullard says. “Well, who would?” Was that Bullshit talking?
Bullard nods at the other guard and suggests a quick break. He’s actually figured out on his own that Taras isn’t going anywhere. Even if Tymko could carry him, the pain would probably kill him.
“I broke his wrist,” Tymko says. “That should slow him down a bit.”
“Poor Viktor.”
“Poor Viktor? He tried to kill you!”
“I know,” Taras says. “Poor Viktor.”
“So who is he?”
“Halya’s father.”
Tymko slaps his forehead. “Should have guessed.”
“He’s always hated me. I don’t know how he got here.”
“Maybe the cops decided he was a spy.”
Taras starts to laugh at the idea of Viktor spying, but stops before he can hurt himself more.
“He’d be really bad at it. Trust me, nobody would ever tell him anything.”
“Maybe it was like with Yuriy – somebody complained about him.”
“Maybe.” Taras doesn’t want to think about Viktor. “How is everybody? How’s the professor?”
“Professor’s good. He’s teaching the men arithmetic. All the ones who couldn’t go to school. Or didn’t go long enough.”
“Damn, I would have liked to do that.” Myro will probably tell them who invented arithmetic and all sorts of interesting things.
“We had to think of something, now that we don’t have you to tell us stories.”
“I need to know more about arithmetic.” Taras’s eyes close and in a moment he doesn’t remember what arithmetic is, but it doesn’t matter.
“All in good time,” Tymko says. Taras is already asleep.
One morning Flora cranks up the head of Taras’s bed and he manages not to yelp. She no longer has to help him with the oatmeal. What’s he going to do when it’s time to go back to the camp and there’s no oatmeal, and no Kvitka? She’s also brought two muffins and hands one to the guard, who on this day happens to be Bullard, without comment, and he wanders off to eat it. She performs her usual chores – writing things on a chart, filling his water glass – then pulls the room’s plain wooden chair near the bed and sits. Taras can see she wants to say something, but can’t imagine saying anything back. Since he was stabbed everything happens far too quickly. Before he can take in one thing, another thing happens.
“I’ve seen you before, you know.” Undaunted by his blank stare, Flora continues. “One day they were marching you men through town. On your way to clear snow from the streets. I saw all the people watching. Clucking and disapproving.”
She waits for him to decode the words, and continues.
“I wanted to speak up, but I was afraid. I wanted to say that it’s not right, the way you’re treated. The government just wants someone to blame.”
Taras can only gape. He’s seen women around the town staring at the internees as they pass, their lips pressed firmly together. For some unknown reason Flora is not like this.
“I knew Ukrainians in Blairmore,” Flora says. “They were wonderful people, I’ll never forget them. They were really strong for the union.”
“The union?” Taras says. “You’re for unions?”
“Oh my, yes. My father is president of the union. Alexander MacQuarrie. He helped to organize the men. ‘Without it,’ he says, ‘it’s every man for himself.’”
“I almost joined a union,” Taras says. “Before they arrested me.”
“Well, maybe some day you will. It’s grand, you know. You’re never quite so alone as you were before.”
Taras can’t grab hold of all her words but he understands that she likes him and she likes unions. She beams at him like a human sun. Something of her radiant health and sturdy good will steals into him.
“Thank you, Flora. Dyakuyiu.”
“You’ll thank me by resting and getting better.” She cranks down his bed and tucks his covers up under his chin. And then she’s headed for the door, squeezing past Bullard, who has come back in. He winks at Taras.
“Wish she’d look at me like that.”
“Be happy you got the muffin.”
Bullard laughs. Taras feels his lips stretch in a small smile. He can’t believe they spoke to each other almost like friends.
CHAPTER 36
When I die, who will care?
Tymko leads Taras into a corridor of ice that gleams deep blue and flashes splinters of sun in their eyes. In the middle of town, by the Brewster Company residence hall, the internees have built an ice palace for the winter carnival. It looks like a military stockade, or maybe the wall around a castle, with corner turrets and the entrance in a central tower. Inside the wall the prisoners have built a maze from great blocks of river ice.
Taras wonders what an ice castle has to do with the war effort. No, that’s the wrong question. The real question is, if you have serfs, what can you get them to do for you? He wasn’t a serf in the old country, but now he is. But who actually owns him?
The single corridor branches into two. Taras has no idea which way to go, but Tymko leads him to the right and around a sudden doubling back in the path. Chill comes off the ice in waves. His breath makes thin clouds that vanish an instant later. He stares into the heart of an enormous block, trying to find meaning in the things that have happened to him. He feels Tymko watching, like a mother alert for signs her child is tiring.
“Leave me alone here a moment.”
Tymko almost protests, but changes his mind and walks off. Taras goes slowly forward until he comes to a dead end, which forces him to backtrack to another branching place. He decides that since before he went right, now he should go left. This soon leads to another dead end. He turns back a second time and sees a passage at right angles to the one he’s in. He follows it to a square space in the middle of the maze.
The maze reminds him of his recent life. Wandering down closed passages, taking right or left turns without knowing where they lead. He runs mittened hands over the ice and feels a stab of panic. What if he’s lost?
He knows he only feels fear because he’s been ill. They wouldn’t make a maze people could get lost in for long. He slows the taking
in and letting go of his breath.
Who would enjoy this? People for whom life’s major questions have already been answered? Being safe, do they like to play at being lost? Taras considers his life in camp as a maze. Is the way out a doorway to something better? Or will it lead to a place where he’ll still be lost?
The cold saturates his bones. He needs Tymko to get him out of here. The thought is no sooner formed than his friend’s hand touches his arm. At the entrance they find Sergeant Lake, who has arranged this strange treat. Supported by Lake and Tymko, Taras thinks he has enough strength to make it to the bunkhouse.
On Banff Avenue, Indian people called Stoneys have set up tipis along the main street. Tymko says the citizens of Banff enjoy having the Stoney people – Nakodah, he calls them – on display in the middle of town. For a little while. It makes their own lives more interesting in some way. More colourful. Taras wonders if the Nakodah enjoy it.
Lake stops to speak to a family: a man and woman in their early thirties, with their daughter, about fourteen. They wear coats made from white woollen blankets, with wide stripes – bright green, red, yellow and black – along the cuffs and the bottom hem. Their deerskin mittens are decorated with colourful beadwork that reminds Taras of Ukrainian embroidery. Their hair hangs in long braids. They look so neat, so tidy, in their dress and in their way of doing things. Their tipi, which the woman and daughter have just finished putting up, has painted animal figures on the outside.
The man has an open, pleasant look. A curious look. His wife smiles a friendly smile, and their daughter has an expression that says she understands her own worth. He thinks of Halya, when they both attended the village school and Halya was best at every subject.
Arthur Lake introduces the family as Sampson and Leah Beaver and their daughter, Frances Louise. Tymko can’t seem to take his eyes off the girl. She must remind him of Oksana. Somehow Lake understands that Tymko wishes he had a gift to give her. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out one of Bohdan’s carvings, a chickadee perched on a bit of tree branch. He hands it to Tymko, who gives it to the girl. She examines it and smiles. Thanks him. Her parents watch, letting the girl handle things. When it’s time for everyone to move on, the woman takes something from the pocket of her blanket coat and gives it to Tymko. It’s a beaded flower, a wild rose, worked on a piece of deerhide.
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